Intermission: Fan Mail (IV), Part 2

The Banquet Hall was still thrumming with voices, but Claire slipped out as soon as the tide of attention shifted away from her. She had planned her exit with all the calculation of a jewel thief: back straight, notebook pressed close, gaze flicking neither left nor right. She was halfway to the service door when a familiar voice cut through the low hum.

“Hey, Claire—wait a second?”

Marissa. She was alone. Today she wore an open shirt over tailored pants, the collar turned up slightly, as if she’d left a meeting in a hurry. Her hair was a little more undone than usual, the gold just beginning to frizz at the ends. Her heels clicked on the tile, but the sound didn’t seem to bother Claire.

She stopped, surprised but not startled, and turned to face her. Marissa offered a small, nervous smile and gestured toward the garden doors. “Could we, uh… walk and talk? I haven’t seen much of you this round.”

Claire nodded, once. She always preferred walking to standing still, especially when the air was thick with expectation.

They took the side path out of the main building, the marble tile cooling instantly to flagstone underfoot. The garden was empty. The light was hard and clear, nothing like the hazy gold of the lounge. It made the edges of the world sharper, and it did the same for Claire’s thoughts.

Marissa fell into step beside her. “I feel like we haven’t talked in ages,” she said. “Not counting my heart-to-heart a few days ago.” Her tone was careful, the way you’d speak to someone who’d just left a hospital. Not fragile, exactly, but uncertain of which wounds were still healing.

Claire shrugged. She pulled out her notebook and wrote: Busy. Work. Archive. She flashed it at Marissa, who nodded and offered a thin smile.

“I get it. I know you have your projects up there. I just…” Marissa trailed off, the sentence collapsing under its own weight. “It’s not a therapist thing,” she added quickly. “I just… missed hanging out.”

That made Claire pause. Not the content, but the honesty. Marissa was better than most, but it was rare to hear her say what she felt, straight out. Claire flipped to a fresh page and wrote, in smaller print: I missed you too. Even if I’m not good at saying it.

Marissa smiled, a little brighter. “You don’t have to say it,” she said, “but I like that you did.” Her voice was, as always, calm and measured, but today there was something extra in the air. Maybe it was the way the sunlight caught the curve of Marissa’s neck, or the way she didn’t walk quite as straight as she usually did, as if letting herself be guided by Claire’s pace.

They walked for a bit in companionable silence, the only sound the wind in the wisteria and the soft thud of Claire’s notebook as she hugged it to her chest. She wanted to tell Marissa about the first Dilmun season, about what she’d found in the Archive, about the gnawing sense that every answer just made the questions more dangerous. She wanted to share the weight, to give it to someone who could analyze it from a different angle. But something stopped her—maybe the way Marissa said “not a therapist thing,” or maybe the bone-deep fear that if she shared it with someone who wasn’t Andy, it would make the pattern real.

The decision hovered on the tip of Claire’s pen, but before she could write a word, Erin appeared around the bend in the garden path. She was impossible to miss: skin the luminous green of a mint leaf, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, bare save for a battered pair of sneakers that looked like they’d survived a war and then been donated to science. Claire made a mental note to remind Erin it was time for new shoes. Her breasts moved with a momentum all their own, but she never seemed to notice or care. Her stride was brisk, businesslike, and for someone without a stitch of clothing, she radiated less self-consciousness than the average fully dressed human at a pool party. She carried her stack of letters in one hand.

Erin broke into a broad, conspiratorial smile as she caught up. She looped an arm around the shoulders of each woman. “You two look like you’re plotting something,” she said, her tone pitched halfway between a challenge and a dare.

Claire, caught between the plant-woman and the psychologist, just blinked. Marissa relaxed a fraction, letting herself be pulled along.

“Not plotting,” Marissa said, “just—” She stopped, caught off guard by the warm weight of Erin’s arm. “Just catching up. It’s been a while.”

Erin grinned, showing off small, perfect teeth that looked just a little too sharp. “I missed you guys,” she admitted. “It’s been all strategy meetings and baby talk for like, three days straight.” She squeezed them a little closer. “Let’s go read these letters. I have an idea.”

Marissa laughed, a sound that always seemed to warm the air around her. “You mean aside from giving everyone a free show?”

Erin shrugged, unfazed. “I’m a public service,” she deadpanned. “You wanna join me in my Sanctuary?”

Claire’s ears flicked. She tilted her head, curiosity overcoming the social static that usually left her mute in these moments.

Erin caught the signal. “I fixed up a place in the woods,” she said. “It’s got a vibe. I figured we could read our fanmail in peace, away from all the drama.” She looked at Claire, who nodded and gave a small thumbs-up, and then at Marissa, who raised her eyebrows but agreed.

“Lead the way,” Marissa said, her voice smooth as honey.

The three walked in step, Erin guiding them through the winding side paths that circled the Main Building and into the denser parts of the garden. The further they got from the Hotel, the thicker the air became with the scent of blooming night jasmine and the cool shadow of overhanging branches. The world grew softer, the relentless light filtered through layers of green, until it felt less like walking and more like sinking into a bath drawn exactly to your preferred temperature.

Claire kept her notebook open as they walked, scribbling down quick impressions and the occasional question. She had noticed, with a faint pride, that both Marissa and Erin kept glancing at her pages—Marissa to analyze, Erin to poke fun, but both in ways that felt more companionable than intrusive.

“So what’s this Sanctuary?” Marissa asked, as they moved deeper under the canopy.

Erin smirked. “You’ll see. It’s good.” She led them around a ruined fountain, then down a soft, mossy incline that seemed to have been shaped more by the passage of animals than by human landscaping. The air here was humid, almost heavy, and the sound of the resort faded behind them until the only noise was the liquid click of Claire’s shoes on stone and the wet brush of Erin’s thigh against her notebook when they walked too close.

They came to a stop at the edge of a small, secluded hollow. In its center was a ring of ancient stone arches, the rock so weathered it looked more grown than built. Between the arches, Erin had woven thick ropes of flowering wisteria and pale green vines, the effect halfway between a ruined temple and the world’s most extravagant wedding arbor.

Erin spread her arms wide, inviting them in. “Welcome to the Verdant Arches. Sanctuary and public reading room of Erin Delgado, Harem Queen.” She waited for applause.

Claire, unable to clap without setting down her notebook, instead shot Erin a beaming smile. Marissa did her one better and whistled, long and low.

“Damn,” Marissa said. “You’ve been busy.”

Erin blushed a little, the green of her skin taking on a hint of darker green. “Helps to have chlorophyll and a week’s worth of free time,” she said, but her pride was obvious.

They stepped through the arches and into the circle. It was cooler here, the sun filtered to a soft olive haze. The ground was carpeted in moss and tiny wildflowers, and in the center, a shallow depression ringed with flat stones made a perfect seat. Erin gestured grandly. “Best acoustics on the island. Not counting the master bathroom.”

Marissa laughed and settled onto one of the stones, legs crossed. Claire hesitated, but Erin tugged her by the wrist and guided her to sit beside Marissa.

For a moment, they just took it in. The hush, the faint dampness, the way the light caught in droplets on every leaf. Even Erin fell silent, which was rare. Marissa closed her eyes and leaned back, head tilted up to the sky.

“You really made this,” Marissa said. “From scratch?”

Erin nodded, pride leaking from every pore. “The arches were here, but I restored them and spruced them up a bit, reshaped the ground, planted the wisteria. It’s mine. I wanted to make a place that felt like… I dunno. Like a beginning.”

Claire scribbled, then held out her notebook: This is beautiful.

Erin blinked. “Thank you,” she said, a little embarrassed.

Marissa looked between them, then down at the stack of envelopes in her lap. She smiled, a real one, not the careful half-smile she reserved for clients.

“Let’s read the mail,” she said. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Erin cracked her knuckles. “You first, Catgirl.”

Claire bristled, but with pleasure, and flipped through her first envelope, the others waiting in a hush of anticipation. There was something ceremonial about the moment, as if they were participants in an ancient rite.

Claire peeled the flap of her first envelope with delicate precision, as if afraid the message might vanish if she moved too quickly. The paper inside was thick, cream-colored, and covered in neat, mechanical print. She scanned the first lines, ears flattening briefly in shock. Then she began to read.

Claire,

I got to say, for someone who can’t talk, you’ve accomplished a lot. It helps that you had access to the rules, and other seasons earlier, but still, you deserve at least as much of the credit as Andy does, if not more, for how well your group adapted to being on Harem Hotel.

Also how rapidly you adapted, even if being on the autism spectrum made you think your transformation was a blessing in disguise, to some pretty disruptive transformations. It took me much longer than you to fully get used to being a slime girl, and while I have had more disruptive transformations than yours, at least as far as I’ve gotten in your season, it still mattered.

Mattered that I couldn’t help Felix, or the rest of the group as much early on as you did, and I think the difference in where we are comparatively speaks for itself.

Wishing you all the luck you need,
Noah

She finished reading and just stared at the page for a moment, the words coiling in her mind like something living. It wasn’t the content, so much as the fact that someone—someone who understood—had written directly to her. Not to the group, not to Andy, not to “the catgirl” or “the quiet one,” but to Claire. By name. It always felt strange, to be seen by strangers like this, even after multiple rounds of fanmail.

Marissa, who’d been watching from her seat, leaned in. “That’s a lot,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Is Noah… one of us?”

Claire nodded, then scribbled in her notebook, flipping it around to show both women: Noah. From another season. Used to be a boy, now a slime girl. Feels bad about not helping their Master when he was being bullied, but is trying to do better this time.

Marissa took a moment to process that, then smiled. “There aren’t a lot of male harems, but there sure are a lot of guys-turned-girls. Is it a rule?”

Erin snorted. “Better odds of surviving, maybe,” she said. “Or maybe it’s just the Producers playing to the crowd.”

Claire wrote: Or a bias in who gets picked for the game. Maybe they only take people they think would work.

Marissa looked at her, then at the note, and gave a slow nod. “Makes sense,” she said. “You’re really good at this.”

Erin grinned and elbowed Claire, just enough to jostle her notebook. “You’re a legend, Catgirl. Even the slime girls want to be you when they grow up.”

Claire blushed, her cheeks and the tips of her ears going pink. She ducked her head, but couldn’t suppress the flicker of pride that pulsed in her chest. After a moment, she began to draft a reply on her notebook, her hand moving faster and more confidently than usual. Satisfied, she tucked the draft into her notebook and reached for the next letter.

The envelope was lighter, the paper inside thin and slick. The handwriting was a narrow, elegant script, with each loop of the pen carefully considered:

Claire. Congratulations on your pregnancy. I really do think you should ask Andy to have your children be cat girls, I am told they are inevitable by a reliable source. In regards to your research into the anomalies, I believe it would help to look into the effects that Andy’s upgrades are having on all of you. Immortality generally has interesting side effects after all.

Shar

She stared at the page, showed it to Marissa and Erin, then glanced up to see both of them openly staring at her.

“Wait—immortality?” Marissa said, leaning forward so the pendant around her neck swayed over her cleavage. “Is that a thing?”

Claire showed her the letter, then pointed at the word. It’s probably a joke, she wrote, then underlined the word “probably” twice.

Erin barked a laugh. “No way. Shar’s not the type to joke unless it’s a power move.” She squinted at the letter, then looked at Claire. “Did you ever ask Andy if the Achievements actually grant immortality?”

Claire shook her head, but this letter made her wonder. She wrote: Need to check. If Andy keeps earning Achievements, maybe it’s not just life extension, but a different kind of existence?

Marissa, reading over her shoulder, said, “If it is, you’ll have all the time in the world to research it.” Her tone was wry but not unkind.

Erin, meanwhile, latched onto the other part of the letter. “You know, it’s a cute idea,” she said. “Making all your kids cat-people, I mean.”

Claire considered. She wrote: It would be cute. But only if they’re healthy and happy. And girls.

Erin laughed again, then grew thoughtful. “Andy’s kids with me would probably be half plant if he wanted them to be. Is that dangerous?”

Marissa considered, then said, “Probably only if they get exposed to herbicide.”

“Great,” Erin said, looking at her own green hands, “New fear unlocked.”

All three of them snorted, the momentary gravity of the letter swept away.

Claire tapped her pen against her lip, then underlined “immortality” and “cat girls” in her notebook. She wrote: Ask Andy about Achievements. Ask Arabella if there’s a limit. Maybe find out how old the oldest harem member ever got.

She realized both women were watching her, waiting for more. She held up the letter, then mimed a lightbulb over her head. It’s weird, she wrote. I always thought of this as a game. But now we're talking of ending it, it’s… real. Someone’s going to be here forever, maybe.

Marissa nodded, the gesture slow and deliberate. “That’s the scary part,” she said. “Even if we beat the game, what does it mean, afterward?”

Erin looked at her, then at Claire, and for a rare moment her smile faded. “I think it means you have to decide what’s worth sticking around for,” she said.

They all sat with that for a moment, the weight of it anchoring them to the mossy ground. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they shrugged it off.

Marissa reached for her own stack of mail. “Okay,” she said. “Keep going.” But Claire was already opening her third letter.

The handwriting here was clipped, efficient, almost scrawled:

It would appear that you have gotten farther than I would have expected in the short time since we last spoke. You’re already pregnant? That is... quite fast. Given the content of our last conversation, I expect you were well within your mind when you were engaging in such acts, and so I assume this child was expected. In that case, I wish to extend my wholehearted congratulations. But I will not be following in your footsteps any time soon, I’m afraid, no matter what anyone else might say.

Dawn Willowbrook

Claire read it twice, then smiled, wide and unguarded. Marissa leaned over. “Friend of yours?”

Claire nodded, then wrote: She’s a catgirl, too. From another season. Came to the birthday party. Very smart. A little intense.

Erin grinned her lips pursed in mock seriousness. “I like her,” she said. “She’s got balls.”

Marissa peered at the note over Claire’s shoulder and let out a low, appreciative chuckle. “The way she says ‘I will not be following in your footsteps any time soon’… it’s a very specific kind of flex.”

Claire, not quite sure if it was a compliment, blinked and tilted her head. She wrote: Is it weird that I kind of admire her?

Erin grinned. “Not weird. She’s your people. Even if she’s a catgirl from another reality.”

Marissa leaned back and nodded, her eyes soft. “She sounds like someone who would have been a good friend, before. Maybe even now.”

Claire nodded, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She looked up at the ring of stone and wisteria, at Marissa and Erin, and realized: she was happy. Not just content, but actually happy. She couldn’t wait to write to Dawn and tell her all about it.

Erin’s first envelope was thicker than the others. When she tore it open, a fat burlap bag tumbled out and landed in the moss with a soft thud. Erin picked it up and rattled it; it sounded like maracas on mute.

She blinked, then unfolded the letter, reading it aloud in her slow, deliberate cadence:

Cyfarchion Erin,

It has been quite a while since the last call for fan mail has been heard from your set, at least by our perspective here. Approximately 95 years. My Mistress (now also my wife) tells me that time dilation is a tricky thing and I trust her on such things. She is the wizard and I am just a lazzorkat with a flail, a shield, and a decent green thumb. I hope your time on the show is going well. The resurrection of your Master’s soulmate is both a blessing and a challenge. I believe that you all have adapted to the challenges admirably. Also, congratulations on your pregnancy. It is nice to hear that your children can be human, if your Master wills it. I assume that your world would be less accommodating to alraune than ours is. As a mother of a few litters myself, motherhood is a great privilege and blessing. Cherish it.

Finally, the thrust of the letter. If you remember, you gave one of my harem-sisters some seeds to propagate. Mattie had some fun making greenhouses and irrigation systems, but she is much more the problem solver than the nurturer. Tending to the Bazongas Delgado Memorial Botanical Garden (her name, not mine) has brought me a level of peace that has never come easy for me. Thank you for the privilege to serve in this manner. The statue of you Mattie commissioned is quite striking. I especially like the creature on the cactus mug. I feel a kinship towards it. The cup calls it a Tiger? What has been sent is now returned, a hundred times over. Seeds from the garden that bears your name. Some from the original species you sent us, some from plants native to our world. I hope building your own garden at home, wherever that will be once the show is over, will be as soothing to your soul as it was for mine.

May the Argent Dancer guide your steps,

Nyadia Trefn Sanctaidd y Coed,
Eighth wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

P.S. I sent Riley a sapling, not realizing she is bad with plants. Is it still alive? Those trees are quite endangered here...

Erin stared at the bag for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “A hundred times over,” she repeated, shaking the sack. “We’re gonna need a bigger garden.”

Claire, grinning, pointed at the last line about Riley and the tree, then blinked at Erin questioningly.

Erin snorted. “She nearly killed it in like, a day. Watered it with Gatorade, I think. I rescued that poor sapling just in time.” She opened the bag, inhaled, and coughed as a sweet, earthy scent exploded into the air. “That’s strong. I bet it’s illegal in like half the States.”

Claire wrote: If it’s from the Copse-Wood harem, maybe it’s got magical properties.

Marissa, ever the professional, kept a straight face. “Or maybe it’s just a really great salad mix.”

The bag was heavier than it looked. Erin held it up to the filtered light, peering at the seeds inside: some were the expected tan or brown, but others were streaked with neon bands, glossy black or deep blue, a few with shimmering metallic coats like beetle wings. Claire leaned in, nose almost touching the bag.

“Should I be worried these are going to eat me?” Marissa said, eyeing the more aggressive-looking specimens.

Erin grinned. “Not unless you’re planning on sprouting,” she said, and popped the string on the sack. She sniffed and immediately recoiled. “Whoa. That is... that’s a lot.”

Claire scribbled: What does it smell like?

Erin thought about it. “Like if a gardening store and a smoke shop had a baby,” she said. “There’s a whiff of rosemary and something that might be... cannabis? Also something so sweet it makes my teeth hurt just smelling it.”

Marissa leaned over, daring. “Can I?”

“Go ahead,” Erin said, and held out the bag. Marissa reached in, her movement careful, almost reverent. She picked out one of the seeds—a fat, dappled thing with purple stripes—and rolled it in her palm.

“It almost vibrates,” Marissa said, voice low. She looked at the seed, then at Erin. “Maybe don’t plant it too close to the house?”

Erin made a note to herself to try it first on the far end of the grounds, preferably near Norah’s favorite sunbathing spot. She poured a palmful of seeds for Claire, who inspected them with the careful, curious energy she reserved for rare books or out-of-print encyclopedias. She turned each one over, examining the texture, then wrote: You should try to grow all of them. Even the weird ones. Science demands it.

Erin snorted, then bent back to the letter, reading the postscript about Riley and the doomed sapling. She couldn’t help herself; she started to laugh. “This is amazing,” she said. “Bazongas Delgado Memorial Botanical Garden. I’m gonna have to make a sign. And, Claire, look—“ she pointed at the cactus-mug line, “—Sir Spikes gets to be a statue in another reality.”

Claire made an exaggerated gasp, then wrote: Immortality through cactus memes. The true endgame.

Marissa covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “I love that there’s a memorial botanical garden named after you.”

Erin winked. “Bazongas Delgado. If you can’t be famous, be infamous.” She opened the next envelope. The paper inside was cheap, computer paper maybe, and the message was short and to the point:

Erin,

I just want to assure you that you aren’t the only one trapped in perpetual nudity. Okay technically I could theoretically get to wear pants some day, but it probably won’t happen for awhile, if ever. Despite being a master, my ability to wear clothing at all is conditional on whether members of my harem let me. All of which is to say, I get where you’re coming from, and while maybe by the time you get this letter this will all be old news, I am rooting for you to succeed. You were able to forgive someone despite years of rage, and that’s no small thing, even if he had a good reason for not being the best boyfriend before.

Sincerely,

Felix

Erin read it out loud, each word a little flatter than the last, until she finished and stared at the page as if she hadn’t been the one to read it.

“Wow,” Marissa said, taking in Erin’s expression. “Is Felix—?”

Claire was already on it, scribbling in her notebook: Master from Noah’s season. He is not allowed to wear clothing unless the harem permits it. Their power over him is real, not symbolic. It’s apparently a big deal in their group.

Marissa let out a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a transformation,” she said. “No offense, Erin, but I think you got the better end of that trade.”

Erin, surprisingly, didn’t react with her usual deadpan. She just nodded, looking at her own mint-green skin. “You know,” she said, “it’s not actually as bad as it sounds. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the first week or so was weird. Especially when you’re the only naked person in the room. But after a while—“ she looked up at the arch overhead, the sunlight through the wisteria “—after a while, it just kind of stops mattering.”

She looked at Marissa, then Claire. “You want to know the secret? It’s way easier to get used to it when you have Katherine and Emily also not wearing clothes. Katherine’s the gold standard for ‘no shame.’ And with Emily, it’s just normal. Plus, my transformation makes me feel better whenever Andy’s touching me. It’s like having a personal comfort blanket, but the blanket is his presence.” She laughed, a little embarrassed. “And that third round, he gave me this two-tailed plush fox that I could sleep with. Worked like a charm.”

Marissa covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is it that easy, though?” she asked, more gently than before. “Getting used to it?”

Erin tilted her head, thinking. “Yeah. I mean, I could say it was hard, but honestly? Not really. Once you stop caring, nobody else does, either.” She reached down and tapped her thigh, then her breast, and then shrugged. “If anything, the hardest part was remembering why it used to matter at all. And now I don’t even really wear the odalisque outfit Shar gave me. It’s mostly for special occasions, you know?”

Marissa grinned. “So the rest of the time it’s just birthday suit?”

Erin snorted. “It’s easier for laundry.” She flicked her gaze at Claire, who grinned back with wide, excited eyes.

Then, softer, Erin said, “Also, it’s kind of fun to see how Andy reacts when I pass him in the hallway.” She made a show of puffing out her chest, strutting a few steps, then turning back to face the others. “He thinks I don’t notice, but his face goes bright red. Every. Single. Time.”

Marissa laughed, genuinely, the sound echoing against the stone. “You are terrible,” she said, affectionately.

Erin beamed, pleased. “Maybe. But I’m happy.”

There was a pause, a comfortable one, as if the air itself was thinking things through.

“Did you ever,” Marissa said, pausing to choose her words, “feel like you didn’t want the transformations?”

Erin shrugged. “Of course. But they’re not going anywhere, so you learn to live with them. And sometimes,” she said, rolling a seed between her fingers, “sometimes they’re actually kind of cool.”

Claire scribbled: Like being part plant?

Erin grinned. “Like being part plant. Or having boobs that double as the world’s best pillows. Or never being cold, not even in the middle of the night.”

Marissa smiled, her tone softer. “Good. I like seeing you happy, Erin. You were always so guarded, before.”

Erin looked at the moss beneath her toes, then at Marissa, then at Claire. “Maybe it’s easier now. I have people who care, even if they’re a painting, a catgirl, or a therapist.”

Marissa shrugged, modest. There was a long silence, then, just the sound of the garden and the click of Claire’s pen. Erin clapped her hands together. “So. Next one?” She reached for the next envelope, but before she opened it, she looked at both women. “Hey, uh... thanks. For doing this with me. I didn’t want to read these alone. I figured it’d be more fun with you two.”

Marissa smiled, touched. “Anytime,” she said.

Erin didn’t say anything for a moment. She just smiled, and it was a different smile—softer, more ****. She sat back, letting the sunlight play over her green skin. Then she took a deep breath, and picked up the next envelope.

This one was heavier stock, the kind that suggested weight and importance. The handwriting was precise, almost calligraphic, and for a second Erin wondered if she was about to get a letter from her high school principal. She opened it, unfolded the creamy paper, and read aloud:

Dear Erin.

I would like to congratulate you both on your shared title of Harem Queen, and on the personal journey you have made in your time on Harem Hotel. You have taken the hardships handed to you well in stride and made them badges of honor. More than made your peace with Andy and forged a life with him of happiness and love. Gained a family of cherished sisters and even a child. The journey is not yet over, and more troubles lie ahead, but I have no doubt you will triumph still.

Best wishes for your future. I have no more advice to give.

Shar

Erin stared at the last line for a long second. Her vision blurred, and for a moment, she was afraid she’d start crying right here in front of the others. She looked up and found Marissa and Claire both watching, Marissa with a gentle smile, Claire with her ears folded slightly down and her gaze unwavering.

“Is it weird that I’m a little sad about this?” Erin said, voice softer than she’d meant. “I kinda liked having Shar’s advice. Even when she was trolling me.”

Marissa nodded, her tone soothing. “Shar only ever gives advice when she thinks people need it,” she said. “If she’s out of wisdom, it means you’re already doing it right.”

Claire reached for her notebook, wrote quickly, then flashed the message: You’re doing fine. She’s proud.

Erin tried to keep her composure, but something in the neat print, in the economy of the words, made her throat ache. She blinked a few times, looking at the stone arch and the wisteria instead of at her friends. When the burn behind her eyes faded, she looked back at them and managed a smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay. I’ll be the Queen, then.”

Marissa smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You’re already the Harem Queen. It’s on the scoreboard and everything.”

Claire gave a small, delighted wave with her hand, the catlike movement so **** and precise that it made Erin want to laugh and hug her at the same time. She held up her notebook: If you need advice, you can always ask us.

Erin thought about it, and nodded. “Deal,” she said, and set the letter beside the last. “You’ll be my royal advisors.”

The fourth envelope was smaller, and the handwriting on the front was even, round, and a little old-fashioned. There was a faint scent of perfume, not quite rose, maybe something a little sharper, and Erin recognized it a second before she realized who the letter was from.

She read:

Hello. Is this Erin Delgado?

I’m writing to you because I believe that we have a great affinity as women in our respective harems. My name is Mary, Mary Reynolds. My husband and I recently attended the birthday party of your fiancé, Andy. He seemed like quite a wonderful man. From what I’ve heard about you, you seem to be quite the capable young woman yourself.

Congratulations on becoming Harem Queen, and congratulations as well on becoming pregnant. As a fellow expecting mother who is a few steps further down the path than you are, having already married the man of my dreams, I wish you all the best. And I encourage you to have your wedding as soon as possible. You seem like quite a lovely woman, and I hope you two are quite happy together.

Mary

The words felt delicate, but the energy behind them was real—sincere, even a little nervous. Erin finished reading and stared at the signature, feeling the old, buried ache of loneliness that sometimes surfaced when she thought of her family. She tried to picture Mary again: the red-haired, quietly friendly woman from the birthday party who’d spent most of her time with Chloe and a couple of the other guests, always smiling, never quite the center of attention.

Marissa was the first to speak. “She seems nice,” she said, and there was no irony in her voice at all. “Genuine.”

Erin nodded. “She was. I think she’s the kind of person who brings food to funerals even if she doesn’t know the deceased.” The image made her smile. She reread the letter, this time aloud but just above a whisper. “I never had this many people care about me before,” she said, the admission softer than any of the others. “Even if it’s just letters, it’s... it means a lot.”

Marissa reached over and put her arm around Erin’s shoulders, hugging her tight, then holding it for a second longer than was strictly necessary. The movement pulled them both off-balance, but neither let go. Claire, after a brief hesitation, scooted closer and pressed her side against Erin’s other arm. She looked up at Erin, her expression the kind of perfect, wide-eyed earnestness that only cats and some children could pull off. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to.

Erin let herself relax into the contact. It felt real, and maybe even a little healing. For a moment, she was tempted to say something about how lucky she was, or how weird it was to finally have a family she actually wanted, but she kept it to herself. The moment was enough.

She wiped her nose on her wrist, grinning. “I’m a mess,” she said, but neither friend let go.

After a minute, she unhooked herself from the double embrace, leaned back, and opened the final envelope. The handwriting was a horror—block capitals with random words underlined, as if the sender had been trying to simulate the voice of a particularly excitable sports announcer.

She read:

I hear you’re the horny one. Nice. Keep it up. More sex is good. Also, send boob pics. The bigger the better.

Holly.

There was a pause. Then, without warning, Erin burst into real, full-bodied laughter. It was so loud it startled a bird off the wisteria. Marissa and Claire both snapped to attention, then, seeing the letter, joined in the laughter.

Erin passed the page to Marissa, who read it, then looked at Erin’s chest and deadpanned, “I mean, she’s not wrong.”

Erin snorted. “I think she’s actually being supportive. Just, like, in the world’s dumbest way.”

Claire blinked when she wrote: If you want, I can take the photos.

For a moment, nobody said a thing. Then Marissa snorted, low and startled, as if she’d tried to stifle a sneeze and failed spectacularly. Erin stared at Claire, trying to decide if the offer was a joke or just, well, Claire. The catgirl looked deadly serious, pen poised over her notebook, clearly expecting a reply. Her ears were high and alert, a twitch at the tips signaling this was not a bit, but an actual service she was willing to render.

“That’s...wow,” Erin managed, shaking her head. “Are you offering professional photography services?”

Claire nodded, matter-of-fact, then scribbled: Lighting is key. Also, pose with a prop for scale.

Marissa howled with laughter, doubling over so her hair brushed the moss. “If you use the seed bag, I swear to God,” she said, pointing at the sack from the garden. Erin didn’t even try to fight the grin spreading across her face.

“That,” Erin declared, “is an idea so dumb I’m actually going to do it.” She eyed the sack and made a pantomime of cradling it under her chest, then winked at Claire. “What do you think? Could we get the whole garden in the frame?”

Claire’s pen flicked: Use a fisheye lens for maximum effect.

Marissa, regaining composure, let her arm rest across Erin’s shoulders, the touch easy and familiar. “Do you need encouragement? Because you know I’ll give it.”

The three of them dissolved into giggles, the sound blending with the birds and the faint hum of bees threading through the arches. When the laughter died down, it left behind the warmth of real, actual friendship, the kind that didn’t care about nakedness or the size of a transformation or whether or not you had to pose with a prop for scale.

When they’d finally caught their breath, Claire flipped to a new page and wrote: We should make a group photo for the reply. It would be funny.

Erin snorted. “Yeah, but you have to be in it, too.”

Claire considered this, then wrote: I have small boobs. I think Marissa qualifies.

Marissa pretended to think it over, then nodded, game as always. “We should get the others, too. Honestly, half the harem fits the bill.”

“Deal,” said Erin. “But we get to pick the best ones for the letter.” She stretched out her legs, then leaned back on her elbows, feeling the cool stone under her and the filtered light on her skin.

Marissa eyed her own stack of mail, a little sheepish that she’d saved it for last. “Okay, my turn,” she said, and pulled the top envelope from the pile. She smiled, recognizing the seal and feeling the weight of old conversations, and slid her thumb under the seal.

She read aloud, her voice low but steady:

Marissa,

It has been nearly a century for us since the party. And much has changed for us. Some things I had to keep quiet about until our final ceremony aired. I somehow managed to win the game, got the wish. Now, we worked out most of the wish already as a harem; we missed a couple of details, but it is impossible to craft a perfect wish. I was told by Ms. E to ask for something personal and ended up doing something similar to Andy. I brought my murdered fiancée back to life. I married Tyalangan (Harper eventually stopped using Harper in her day-to-day), Alex (my lovely goth punk wish), and Daphne in a big crazy ceremony.

The four of us are happy together. As is everyone else in the harem, generally. Daphne’s first set of kids are grown up. She’s had a couple more spawnings since then, but mermaids are slow growers. Business is doing well, too. I have a steady stream of clients and a decent crew of temple novices working with me. Alex helps at the reception desk, too. It’s early days for the season Tyalangan is hosting. The stress of it is already showing. Then again, the fate of our old world is in the balance, so stress is something she expects. I’m helping as I can.

I saw you struggling this week, between Andy’s reality breaking revival of Laura and other things. I wish I could help, do more than give a place for you to vent. But, if you need it, I am there for you. Say the word. Arabella and my wife can coordinate a visit, either you here or I show up there to install a magma bath at the HH’s spa. Don’t worry, I have lava damage immunity potions. You helped me out of a dark spot there. It’s the least I can do to do the same for you.

Wishing you well from afar,

Scarlet
Matron of the Order of the Silvery Moth
Proprietor of The Glittering Moonfire Spa
Third Wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

She set the letter in her lap, silent for a beat.

Erin broke the hush first, a playful light in her eyes. “I remember Scarlet,” she said. “At Andy’s birthday. She was the woman that seemed to be made of obsidian, with a really good taste for cheese plates.”

Marissa laughed, soft but genuine. “That was her. She was sweet. Went through a lot.”

Claire, who’d read the letter upside down as Marissa held it, tapped her notebook and wrote: Did you help her? Or did she help you?

Marissa considered. “Both, maybe? She was farther along in the game when we first corresponded. I guess I was supposed to be the emotional support, but sometimes it felt like she was looking out for me.”

Erin leaned in. “Do you miss her?”

Marissa looked up, blinking at the directness of the question, then nodded. “Yeah. I do. But it’s good to hear she’s happy. And the idea of a lava bath doesn’t sound terrible.”

“‘Don’t worry, I have lava damage immunity potions,’” Erin quoted, winking. “That’s how you know she’s not kidding.”

Claire wrote: If we visit, can we try it?

Marissa grinned. “It sounds like a sauna, but with a risk of instant ****.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Only if you forget the potion.”

They laughed together, the sound easy and warm. For a moment, Marissa closed her eyes and let herself picture the four of them, or five, or a dozen, all sharing a ridiculous spa day at the end of the world. She wasn’t sure if it would ever happen, but the thought alone felt good.

“Scarlet’s a good friend,” she said, quieter. “I’m glad she’s still out there.”

Erin nodded, and even Claire’s face, usually hard to read, softened a little.

They let the moment linger, and it was a nice one.

There was one letter left in Marissa’s stack, and it was so plain and understated that she’d almost missed it. The handwriting was crisp, a little too perfect, and she knew right away it was from Shar.

She read it first to herself, letting the words settle, and then aloud for the other two:

Dear Marissa.

This has been a tough time for you and I feel for your pain. Please take what comfort and kindness you can from your new sisters. You do have a place with Andy and them, and you do deserve it. Be proud of who you are, both in what you show the world and the part you keep private. There is no sin in wanting to help others, but please also take care of yourself. Your music, as ever, is a delight. As are you.

Shar

Marissa let the words settle. She felt an ache in her chest, not unpleasant, but sharp. After a second, she realized she wasn’t breathing, and let out a soft sigh.

Erin looked at her, genuinely concerned. “Hey, you okay?”

Marissa nodded. “It’s just—nice. To be seen.” She hesitated, then laughed, a little bitter. “You’d think being a therapist would make it easier to accept help, but... it’s not.”

Claire, who had been quiet for a while, wrote in her notebook: You help a lot of people. You deserve help too.

Marissa blinked, then smiled, eyes wet. “Thank you, Claire. That means a lot.” She looked at the two of them, then set the letter carefully on the moss beside her.

They sat in the hush, the weight of the letter making the world quieter. Finally, Erin spoke. “You look like you’re waiting for something,” she said.

Marissa considered, then admitted: “Its stupid, but after all that happened this round... I was half-hoping I’d get a letter from someone else. My mentor. She taught me almost everything. I thought… I don’t know, that she would write.”

Erin nodded, serious for once. “Maybe she doesn’t know you’ve had a hard time,” she said. “Or maybe she thinks you’re doing fine.”

Marissa laughed, the sound a little thick. “Maybe.”

Claire reached over, took Marissa’s hand, and squeezed it. Erin, not to be outdone, draped her arm around Marissa’s shoulder and pulled her into a loose, protective embrace.

“You have us,” Erin said.

Marissa didn’t answer for a while, but when she did, her voice was steadier. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

The three of them sat together, arms tangled, as the breeze moved through the arches, stirring the wisteria.